


Riddles in the Dark

by StarlightAndFireflies



Series: Riddles in the Dark [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I tried to make it as non-graphic as I could, Interrogation, Riddles, Suspense, but it's technically torture, cuz Moriarty's a little weirdo like that, there are also Hobbit references, with some riddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-20 11:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4785191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock is kidnapped by an old nemesis, it's up to John to find him and save his life. But can he find a way to get the detective out of this mess? And will they be found in time? Rated thusly because I'm paranoid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Sherlock or the Hobbit (the references to which come in the middle chapters)... *sighs longingly*

John was starting to get worried. Sherlock hadn't texted him in hours, and they were in the middle of a case. That never happened. Even when John managed to get to work during cases, Sherlock was constantly texting him, bouncing ideas off him or just pestering him about coming home. Something was up.

John grabbed his coat at the end of his shift and called out a goodbye to Sarah. She nodded back, and he hurried out the door. Hailing a cab, John pulled out his phone to text Sherlock. As he climbed in the cab and told the driver his address, however, it began to ring.

"Hello?"

"John, it's me."

"Lestrade? What is it?"

The DI sounded concerned. "Have you heard from Sherlock? I can't get hold of him."

John paused. "No, I haven't either."

There was a silence as both men took in the gravity of what they'd just said. John's mind was racing. Sherlock never disappeared while on a case like this, never. If he did, he always answered John's texts.

"This isn't just a normal case, you know," Lestrade said suddenly. "We just got a fax here at the office."

"What does it say?" John asked, swallowing hard.

"Just two letters," Lestrade's voice was barely a whisper. "JM."

As if by magic, John's phone vibrated against his ear. He pulled it back to see he had a text message.

"Okay, hang on, Greg. I've got a text. It might be Sherlock."

He opened the message.

_Come and play, Johnny. Embankment. Jim Moriarty x_


	2. Breathing's Boring

_Come and play, Johnny. Embankment. Jim Moriarty x_

"Oh, God," John said, raising the phone back to his ear. "Lestrade, it's him. It's Moriarty again."

"What? What do you mean? What did he say?" Lestrade sounded startled, worried.

"He told me to go to Embankment. I don't ... What should I do?"

"Where are you now? I don't know if you should go on your own, John ... Wait until I get over there."

"Greg, if Moriarty has kidnapped Sherlock, there's no time to lose! He could be hurt, or worse..."

Lestrade sighed, just a loud rush of static over the phone. "Are you armed?" He sounded resigned.

"No, I just came from work. Look, I'll be fine, just meet me there quickly."

"Where exactly...?"

John paused. "Embankment somewhere. I don't know. I'll call when I get there, alright?"

"Yeah. Be careful, John."

 

* * *

 

The cabbie had been faintly irritated that John had changed the route halfway to Baker Street, but John couldn't have cared less. If Sherlock really had been kidnapped, then they had very little time to find him. Moriarty liked his games to move along rapidly, not drawing them out unnecessarily. If John didn't come to Embankment, it would probably be just a few short hours before Moriarty did something drastic to lure him out. Like dangling a kidnapped Sherlock over his conscience.

The cab stopped near the Hayward Gallery. John paid the cabbie and leapt out onto the street. He looked up and down the street uncertainly. Where would Moriarty want to meet?

His phone buzzed then, and he grabbed it.

_Eye see you. JM_

Well if that wasn't a hint, he didn't know what was. He walked hesitantly down the street, looking around for anything suspicious. There was construction, surprise surprise, on the elevated path he was on. If he wanted to get to the Eye now, he would have to walk almost two kilometers. He stepped off the pavement and onto Belvedere Road. From there he made his way to the mostly-deserted Westminster Bridge and began to cross the Thames.

As he walked, he let his mind ponder the gravity of the situation. Sherlock had been in highly dangerous, even deadly situations before, but he had never been in quite this much peril. Alone somewhere, no means of communication, and depending on John to find and save him. John couldn't imagine what was going through the detective's mind on the best of days, least of all now.

All John knew for certain was that he was not going to allow Moriarty to hurt Sherlock, not if he could help it. He and Sherlock had been through too much for him to let the maddening, confusing, brilliant man down.

Looking up, John saw the colorful spiral of the iconic London Eye, its lights changing from red to blue to green and back, casting a glow over the surrounding area, except when it was transitioning to another color. John approached it, hoping he would find Moriarty soon. He pulled out his phone and prepared to call Lestrade back.

A dark car drove past him and parked by the side of the road. John, preoccupied, barely noticed it. He kept walking, the lights of the Eye flashing on and off every thirty seconds or so. He neared the car just as the light switched off those precious seconds to change from green to red. At that moment of darkness, two men emerged from the car and seized John. His mobile phone fell from his hand and landed with a clatter on the pavement. Throwing a cloth bag over his head, the two men managed to toss him in the car before he really knew what hit him.

He struggled, but the distinctive, sweet smell of chloroform on the bag was already weakening him. The car lurched forward, but he couldn't even muster the energy to keep track of the turns. So much for deducing his location, John thought bitterly. Sherlock will be disappointed if we get out of this.

As he began to lose consciousness, one thought stuck out in his mind. It was in Sherlock's voice, and in his dizzied and confused brain, it sounded as though it was whispered in his ear.

"Breathing's boring."

John took one last desperate gasp and passed out.

Boring? No, not really.


	3. Rules

"John? Wake up."

John slowly forced his eyes open, blinking. He felt still weak from the chloroform, but slightly better now that that cloth had been removed. A headache remained, unfortunately. He looked around despite the pain pounding against his skill. There was nothing distinctive about his current location. It was a nondescript, dark building, smelling like dust and something like glue. It was dark, almost completely, but a faint glow was struggling to penetrate through a dirty, age-stained window to John's left.

The army doctor tried desperately to deduce anything useful about where he was, but only got as far as a factory. An old, abandoned factory. Or maybe a construction site.

But there were dozens of building sites all over London, as well as old factories, so that observation truly did nothing to help him. He could tell, however, that he was nowhere near the London Eye, Westminster Bridge, or Embankment, as there were no sounds of traffic or the colorful lights of the Eye through the window. A worrying thought struck him. Was he even in London?

"Johnny, focus."

John blinked, forcing his gaze back to the front. Those few seconds of observing had clearly not gone unnoticed by the man who knelt before him.

Jim Moriarty grinned at him through the dim light, then stood up nimbly. "You can try to free your wrists and ankles from that chair, Johnny, _but I don't think you will_ ," he said in a singsong voice, holding out the word "will" twice as long as necessary.

John immediately twisted his wrists, glancing down. Zip-ties dug into his skin, and he resisted the urge to wince. He felt his blood circulation being strained, though not cut off; the veins and arteries were just working harder than they should.

Moriarty turned and reached up toward the ceiling, yanking on a string. A single light bulb flickered on, illuminating a second chair a few meters away across the room. Another person was slumped in it, a bag over his head.

John didn't need the bag off to know who it was. He wasn't an idiot. And the large black coat and blue scarf on the floor at his feet was a bit of a giveaway.

"Sherlock," John gasped, fear shooting through him.

Moriarty slipped the bag off but tucked it in Sherlock's collar so the detective was still exposed to the fumes. A strip of cloth as a gag was stretched across his mouth.

"Now that we're all gathered here," Moriarty said briskly, bending over Sherlock and clapping his hands together. "I'd like to explain why I've brought you to this place."

He spun in a circle suddenly to face John again, which didn't at all help with John's dizziness. "You remember what I told Sherlock the last time we spoke, Doctor Watson?"

John nodded. "You said you'd destroy him."

"No," Moriarty snapped. "I said I'd burn the heart of him. There's a slight difference there. I want to hurt him, which is why you're here."

He turned around again and walked across the room. The darkness obscured whatever he was doing, but John could hear quiet rustling and what sounded like the scrape of a thin piece of metal.

John looked over at Sherlock. "Hey," he breathed. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Sherlock raised his head slightly. His green-gray eyes were dimmed and he looked barely conscious. He blinked rapidly several times, clearly trying to focus. John was horrified to see the detective so weak.

"Sherlock," he whispered again with a nervous glance at Moriarty.

"John," he replied weakly, voice muffled through the gag.

Just then, as relief flooded through John, Moriarty turned around and approached John again. He bent over him, inches from his face. When he spoke, his voice was a deadly whisper.

"Do you think you're intelligent, Johnny?" he asked. "Clever?"

John swallowed, glancing over at Sherlock, who was watching with a dazed expression. "Not as clever as some," John replied. "But I'm not a total idiot."

Moriarty grinned. "Good. Excellent. Do you often do puzzles?"

"What?"

"Puzzles. Riddles," Moriarty clarified.

"Do solving cases count?"

Moriarty raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Not in this situation, actually. Now, since you aren't prepared, allow me to explain the rules."

He grinned, standing up and starting to pace. "You know how I like my games. This one's rather fun. It's a gamble for your lives, but I don't know if both of you will survive.

"Now I _adore_ riddles, so let's see how far you get, how intelligent you really are. After all, Sherlock's life is in your hands."

"What are you talking about?" John demanded, unsure what was going on.

"Every time you get a question wrong," Moriarty replied, standing and approaching Sherlock's limp form. "I'll use this."

He raised up a knife, waving it tantalizingly in the air. John's heart dropped into his stomach at the sight. He couldn't let this psychopath hurt Sherlock. He wouldn't.

"So? So I just won't get any riddles wrong. Easy. You can't win," John said, sneering despite his fear.

"Oh?"

Moriarty laid the flat of the blade on Sherlock's bared arm, stealing the words from John's lips and the air from his lungs.

"I haven't told you the best part yet. For every answer you get wrong, as I said, I'll use this on Sherlock. But for every answer you get _right_ , I'll use it on you.

There was a pause, a silence, in which John allowed those words to sink in. When Moriarty spoke again, his odd voice had never sounded so menacing.

"How many cuts do you think you can survive, John?"

"Why?" John whispered. "Why are you doing this?"

"Burn the heart out," Moriarty quoted himself softly. "Remember? Oh, and if one of you dies from blood loss, there's no point in the game anymore, is there? So I'll ... ah, how to put it? ... have to eliminate the other."

John's gaze fell on Sherlock again, and the detective was looking back at him steadily. The gag was still preventing him from speaking, but his eyes were enough communication.

_Get yourself out of this, John._

John's heart was racing. Getting himself out of this wasn't his concern; getting _Sherlock_ out of this was.

_I'll fix this,_ he thought desperately, praying Sherlock got the message _. I'll get us out._

I have to.


	4. Riddle Me This

Contrary to a certain consulting detective's popular opinion, John Watson was not an idiot.

He knew Moriarty's game here. He was only hurting John to get to Sherlock, because the psychopath knew what John would do. John hated the fact that he was doing exactly what Moriarty wanted him to, but he saw no other choice. He couldn't let Sherlock get hurt.

He had to get as many of these riddles right as possible, but not too many. If he lost too much blood and fainted, he would be powerless to stop Moriarty from injuring or perhaps even killing Sherlock. John just needed to buy time so Lestrade, who was surely looking for them, could find them.

"Shall we begin?" Moriarty asked softly, jerking John out of his thoughts.

The criminal had positioned himself in between the two chairs and was twirling the knife idly in his hand. His piercing gaze seemed to cut through John.

John swallowed, nervous, but nodded resolutely. "I'm ready."

"We'll start easy then," Moriarty replied, smirking, then recited the first riddle. _"I am always hungry, I must always be fed, the finger I lick will soon turn red."_

John paused, thinking. Moriarty was right; it wasn't a difficult one. "Fire," he supplied easily, smiling though he knew what was coming.

Moriarty leaned forward and laid the blade on John's arm. He looked into the army doctor's face, his eyes gleaming luridly in the semi-darkness.

The knife cut into John's skin, and he clenched his teeth, determined to remain stoic. It wasn't a serious cut, at least for now. A thin trickle of blood seeped out, but it was shallow and would heal quickly.

"Next," Moriarty said casually as if nothing had happened. _"I move without wings between silken strings. I leave as you find my substance behind."_

John thought for a moment. The word "silken" gave him the answer almost as quickly as the first one. He glanced at Sherlock, who was staring back, eyes full of something like worry. Very faintly, he shook his head, as if telling John not to answer.

"Spider," John said anyway, looking back up at Moriarty.

Unbeknownst to John, as Moriarty raised the knife this time, Sherlock closed his eyes, not wanting to see it happen again.

John, on the other hand, stared straight at Moriarty as the blade made a second cut. Again, he refused to wince, but the consulting criminal seemed to see the suppression in his eyes and grinned.

"Next..."

The two continued that way for several more rounds in quick succession.

_"The more you have of it, the less you see."_

"Darkness, obvious."

_"What has roots nobody sees, is taller than trees, up up up it goes, and yet never grows?"_

"A mountain."

_"I cannot be other than what I am until the one who made me dies. Power and glory fall to me finally when he at last closes his eyes."_

"A prince."

John was feeling quite confident. Most of the these riddles were simple, ones children would learn. The only thing keeping the doctor from getting too cocky was the stinging, painful cuts, numbering a half dozen now. And soon things went further downhill as John's thoughts grew more scattered and disjointed as the blood kept seeping out of him. Moriarty, of course, was merciless, continuing to shoot off riddles as casually as if skipping rocks on a lake.

_"Halo of water, tongue of wood. Skin of stone, long have I stood. My fingers short reach to the sky. Inside my heart men live and die."_

This time it took John much longer to come up with the answer. He saw Sherlock's gaze boring into him. That arrogant know-it-all probably already knew the answer.

"It's a castle," John gasped finally. Moriarty looked vaguely disappointed, while Sherlock's shoulders tensed suddenly. Moriarty reached toward John with the knife again...

It had quickly become a showdown; Moriarty seemed to be determined to hurt Sherlock now. But John was equally determined to prevent that.

After several more rounds, Moriarty leaned in again. _"I'm sometimes white and always wrong. I can break a heart and hurt the strong. I can build love or tear it down. I can make a smile or bring a frown."_

John felt his heart racing and pounding harshly, which was starting to worry him. He glanced down at the eleven streaks of scarlet soaking his arm. Too much blood. Things were definitely getting worse. His pulse was elevated and his blood pressure had probably dropped, which told him he would need a transfusion as soon as possible, especially if he received any more marks.

"Give up, John?" Moriarty asked softly, wiping the blade clean on John's shirt. "Want to give a point to Sherlock?"

Silence fell as John deliberated. He wasn't going to be able to keep getting riddles correct if he wanted to stay conscious. He closed his eyes, searching for the answer to this one. When he opened them, Moriarty had moved over to Sherlock and was reaching for his arm now.

"Lie!" John blurted. "The answer's lie!"

Moriarty looked faintly annoyed but smirked. "Good."

John watched Sherlock staring daggers at Moriarty's back as he gave John another "point". This time, the mark was deeper, and John, unprepared, flinched visibly.

"Stop it," Sherlock protested, voice still distorted through the gag.

"Oh, a reaction!" Moriarty grinned maniacally. "At last! Do you enjoy it, Sherlock? Watching your loyal lapdog ready to give his life for you?"

"Shut up," John hissed. "Just give me another riddle. Leave him alone."

Moriarty turned back to him. "You think you can save him, John?"

John didn't answer. He glared back instead, hating this man with all his might.

_Lestrade, Mycroft_ , he thought desperately, meeting Sherlock's gaze once again. _Where are you?_


	5. Desperate

Lestrade was pacing up and down the hallway in New Scotland Yard, staring at the fax from Moriarty, every once in a while checking his phone. John should have called him by now; it didn't take all that long to get to Embankment. Yet an hour had passed, and there was still no call. The DI knew something was wrong, but until he got word from either Moriarty or John, he was not in a position to do anything. He couldn't exactly search all of London looking for them, after all.

Suddenly, his phone rang, making him jump.

"Lestrade."

"Detective Inspector, this is Mycroft Holmes."

Lestrade froze. "Have you learned anything? Do you know where they are?"

"Not yet, Detective Inspector, but I could use your assistance locating them. Have you tracked John's mobile phone?"

"No, he said he'd call me once he-"

"It has reached my attention that John has also been kidnapped," Mycroft interrupted. "Trace his phone, Detective Inspector, and I'll be seeing you shortly."

He hung up, and Lestrade didn't hesitate.

"Donovan! Get in here!"

 

* * *

 

A quarter hour later, Mycroft Holmes walked into New Scotland Yard calmly, swinging his umbrella at his side. A blustery rain was falling outside, but the government worker still managed to look impeccably clean and dry. He approached Lestrade, who was bent over a computer intently.

"The last place John's phone was seems to be Westminster Bridge," Lestrade said, giving Mycroft a cursory nod in greeting. "But then the signal was lost."

Mycroft nodded, having expected as much. "The CCTV feeds show him on that bridge," he began, and Lestrade faced him, leaning back on the desk, his arms crossed. "The camera was set on a low resolution, unfortunately, so details were vague. The London Eye was on its night colors cycle, it seems, which confused the camera further."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "What does that mean for us?"

"It means that when the colors turned off to transition the camera momentarily could not distinguish any visual data," Mycroft replied. "So if John was taken on that bridge, it means the kidnappers knew the precise moment to take him so we would be unable to see which car they drove."

Lestrade cursed under his breath. "Do you think we could see how they took Sherlock, though?" he asked hopefully.

Mycroft shook his head ruefully. "The security cameras I have on Baker Street and in 221B itself were shorted out minutes before Sherlock's phone lost signal. That was how I was alerted to the situation."

"So you're saying we have no idea where they were taken or how?" Lestrade summarized incredulously.

Mycroft nodded. "For now. But if you could allow me to use your computer, we could perhaps do something to change that."

The DI moved out of the way so Mycroft could sit down. "What do you propose we do then?" he asked the other Holmes.

Mycroft glanced at him, his eyes with the same determined glint Lestrade was so used to seeing in his younger brother's. "We're going to find them, of course."

 

* * *

 

John gasped as Moriarty gave him yet another cut. Blood was pooling at his feet, and Sherlock knew if they didn't escape and find help soon, he wouldn't make it. Meanwhile, Sherlock was carefully working his wrists into a position in which he would easily break the zip-ties and escape if he got the chance. He had a tie on each wrist, linked together. They were digging into his skin, but they still were able to move, so he was carefully, slowly, rotating his wrists to try to line up the lock mechanisms. Once he accomplished that, all he would have to do would be to slam his arms downward while yanking them apart, and the zip-ties would break. But for now he sat there, readying the ties and waiting for the right moment to break them.

Meanwhile, John had long since given up on trying to hide his discomfort; everyone in the room knew it was there anyway. This time, as Moriarty pressed the blade into John's skin, he didn't show mercy; John cried out in pain. He couldn't do this for much longer.

"Now," Moriarty hissed. "Just a few riddles left, Johnny, if you can bear it."

"John," Sherlock forced the word out through the gag, concern unusually evident in his eyes. Moriarty turned on him, glaring.

"Did I give you _permission_ to speak?" he asked, bringing the knife to rest against Sherlock's cheek. He dragged it teasingly across his skin, smearing John's blood across it but not making an actual cut.

Sherlock didn't say anything more, and Moriarty stepped away, seemingly satisfied. "That's what I thought," he murmured. "But just so you don't do it again..."

He turned back and, with lightning-quick accuracy, made a gash across Sherlock's cheek, making the consulting detective wince in spite of himself at the unexpected pain.

"Screw you, Moriarty," John hissed.

When Moriarty turned back to the doctor, however, his voice was fiercer than John had ever heard it. _"This thing all things devours: birds, beasts, trees, flowers. Gnaws iron, bites steel. Grinds hard stones to meal. Slays king, ruins town, and beats high mountain... down."_

His voice lowered to an chilling whisper at the end, and it sent an involuntary shiver up John's spine. He looked straight into Moriarty's eyes, his dazed mind trying desperately trying to find the answer.

Sherlock was staring at him, as if willing the doctor to read his mind. But John's vision as well as his mind were growing unreliable.

"I... I don't know..." John whispered.

"Give up?" Moriarty breathed, raising his knife and giving Sherlock a dark yet eager look.

"No, no wait," John gasped, as Moriarty reached for Sherlock's arm. _"Wait, I can do this!"_

 

* * *

 

"Find anything?" Lestrade asked, setting a cup on the desk for Mycroft. He took a gulp of his own tea and leaned over Mycroft's shoulder, looking at the computer screen. Several CCTV videos showed the street outside 221B and Westminster Bridge. The clock on the videos showed they were from several hours ago.

"Keep looking, Lestrade," Mycroft said, picking up his tea and standing. "You know what to look for."

"What are you going to be doing?" Lestrade inquired.

Mycroft grimaced slightly. "Legwork," he replied over his shoulder as he picked his jacket off the coatrack in the corner and strode away, dialing his assistant's number. "Someone has to!"

"Why not some of my-?"

"No, and if I had to choose someone to investigate, I'd choose my brother," Mycroft said. "But he's clearly unavailable, so that leaves me."

Lestrade watched him go, hoping he was onto something good. He tried to tell himself that Mycroft was still a Holmes, and so _had_ to know more than he, but he couldn't seem to find reassurance in that. He just hoped they could find John and Sherlock before it was too late.


	6. Running Out Of Time

Mycroft Holmes got out of the car at 221B Baker Street, leaving the door open so his assistant could follow. She did, her mobile phone in her hand, ready to call Lestrade for him if necessary. Mycroft strode to the door and let himself in with the key he had once "borrowed" from Sherlock.

Because who said Mycroft didn't do things like that?

He entered the building, noting that Mrs. Hudson was out. Glancing into her flat perfunctorily, he saw she was gone for a few days, visiting family. Her sister, it seemed, he noted with a second look. Dismissing the first floor, he made his way up the steps to Sherlock and John's rooms.

Judging by the state of the kitchen and bedrooms, Sherlock hadn't been eating or sleeping much, though John had tried to convince him to eat some food, had even considered cooking something, but Sherlock had clearly convinced him otherwise. Mycroft turned and looked around the sitting room. There, sitting on the sofa, was Sherlock's phone, the screen shattered and the battery removed. Mycroft picked it up, sighing. It had been squeezed by strong hands, not slammed against anything, so it was likely Moriarty had someone strong helping him. And Sherlock was stubborn and strong, always refused to go down without a fight; Moriarty wouldn't have been able to secure him alone.

Mycroft looked around the room again. His brother had been prepared for Moriarty to do something again, ever since the incident at the pool. If he figured he was going to be kidnapped, which Mycroft reckoned was likely, what would Sherlock have done? His gaze fell on the table, covered with science equipment. A bottle lay on its side, empty.

_Linseed oil, Sherlock?_ Mycroft smirked as he picked it up. _Are you really so obvious?_

He gestured to Anthea, who handed over the phone. It had been specially upgraded and had capabilities few phones had, like black light, for example. Clicking it on, Mycroft scanned the floor, immediately seeing the footprints leading down the stairs and around the corner. The elder Holmes smiled in spite of himself.

 

* * *

 

"Sir? What about missing vehicles? If they took the Freak, they wouldn't want to have a car that could be traced back to them."

Lestrade nodded absentmindedly, making Donovan scowl impatiently and stalk off to answer a ringing phone. It was an idea, Greg mused, but how much time was he willing to waste checking every missing car in London for a link to Moriarty? John and Sherlock could be dead already for all he knew!

His phone rang, interrupting his worried thoughts, and he scrambled for it.

"What have you got? It's been two hours since you left!"

"You need to get to Addlestone," Mycroft ordered without preamble. "There's a line of old factories near the river there. That's where they'll be. I will meet you there, but you need to hurry, Detective Inspector. They're running out of time."

 

* * *

 

"Wait, I can do this!" John implored. "I just need a moment, _please!"_

"Fine," Moriarty said, an inexplicable smirk on his face. "I'll give you more time."

He kept the knife out, twirling it between his fingers, not caring that the blood of both Sherlock and John dirtied his skin and nails.

Sherlock watched intently. The effects of the chloroform had long since worn off; the grogginess and confusion was now just a show to keep Moriarty thinking he was compliant. He adjusted his wrists one final time.

John looked over at Sherlock, who was keeping his eyes locked on Moriarty. The doctor wanted to say something to Sherlock, to tell him they would get out of this. But Sherlock wasn't an idiot, he knew how badly things were going. And John couldn't think straight anymore. He could barely even remember half of the last riddle. He sighed, resigned to letting Sherlock get a cut.

Just then, as John was about to admit defeat to the leering psychopath, Sherlock launched out of his chair at Moriarty. A satisfying snap sounded as the zip-ties broke, falling to the ground, and Moriarty yelped as Sherlock tackled him.

Moriarty shoved Sherlock away from him, but the consulting detective tried to fight back still. So Moriarty raised the knife. They scuffled, then Sherlock's eyes widened, and John feared the worst.

_Oh God no._

"Time!" John shouted to distract Moriarty from Sherlock, the answer to the last riddle falling into his head as if by magic. "The answer is time!"

Moriarty shoved Sherlock off of him, looking away from him and back to John. He stood up, brushing off his suit, and strode over. John ignored him, however, his gaze fixed on his friend.

Sherlock lay on the ground, a deep gash in the brachial artery of his left arm. His shirt was stained quickly scarlet. His right hand reached up to clutch at the wound, then he looked up at John, a flicker of fear showing on his expression for an instant before it was replaced by his usual calm.

The doctor didn't even feel the cut Moriarty gave him this time, too terrified for Sherlock.

"Good job, Doctor Watson, the answer was time," Moriarty was whispering. "Too bad you're running out of it."

John had to agree.


	7. Stained Scarlet

Lestrade spotted Mycroft's sleek, dark car immediately as he pulled up to the old warehouse. He rushed over the slick pavement, making sure his gun was secure on his belt, Donovan and several other officers following.

"You're sure this is the place, yeah?" he asked as he neared.

Mycroft gave him a look as if to say, "Would I have brought you here if I weren't sure?"

Lestrade nodded. "Okay, so what do we know? How many inside?"

"Only Moriarty, as far as we know," Mycroft replied. "Though I doubt he apprehended both Sherlock and John on his own."

"We're basically going in blind," Lestrade sighed. "Are you sure there's nothing else you can tell me?"

"Detective Inspector, do you really think that I would withhold information when it is my brother's life that is in danger?" Mycroft asked coldly.

They looked at each other for a moment, then Lestrade nodded. "Alright," he said. "Let's go."

He turned to the other officers and signaled for them to surround the main door leading into the warehouse. But before they could do anything but tighten their grip on their guns, a man stepped out of the building. He froze for an instant, raising his own rifle, before Lestrade was on him, snapping handcuffs on his wrists.

"I guess we're in the right place," he hissed. He looked over his shoulder at Mycroft, who was nodding.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the rifle-bearing man growled.

Mycroft stepped forward. "Moran," he murmured. "I've read your file."

"You know nothing!"

"Mycroft?" Lestrade asked.

"He's one of Moriarty's men," he explained. "We're most certainly in the right place."

"Here," Lestrade said, passing the restrained Moran off to Donovan, who quickly led him away.

Lestrade turned to Mycroft. "Let's hope that's the only surprise we get before this day is over."

 

* * *

 

John's vision was blurring. He was passing out, and he knew it. But he couldn't pass out, couldn't leave injured Sherlock alone to deal with Moriarty.

"John," Sherlock murmured, looking up at him.

"Shut up!" Moriarty hissed, fiercely pressing the knife against John's arm yet again.

John thought he heard a faint clatter and a commotion from outside. Sherlock lifted his head as well, listening, his eyes focused on the darkness.

Moriarty stood, squinting into the darkness as well. His eyes narrowed, and in John's blurred gaze, he seemed like a bird of prey, about to swoop onto a wounded mouse. He looked at John and the impression was heightened.

"I think we have visitors," Moriarty said. "Before they come in, I'll give them a little welcome gift."

John dimly saw a swoop of silver, a spurt of scarlet, and then a cloak of darkness. The last thing he heard was Sherlock screaming his name.

 

* * *

 

Lestrade gave the signal, and the officers burst into the factory, torches and guns held ready. They found them in an instant, but the sight, instead of being a relief, sent a chill through Lestrade.

John was slumped in a chair, blood gushing down his arms. A deep slash on his right arm seemed to be the worst, and Lestrade saw with no small amount of worry that the doctor was unconscious.

Sherlock was laying on the ground, eyes fixed on John. He was clutching at his arm, also oozing blood. His gaze lifted to meet Lestrade's, and he gave a slight nod of acknowledgement.

Moriarty stood in between the two men, a gun raised and trained on Sherlock.

"If you want to arrest me, boys, you'll have to sacrifice one of them," he called. "Your choice. Which one shall I kill?"

"Hold your fire," Lestrade ordered his men quickly. He couldn't afford having this turn into a shoot-out, unwilling to risk John and Sherlock.

"Moriarty, we have you surrounded. It's over, let them go."

_"Oh, I don't think so,"_ he sang. "Is that a vote for Sherlock, or for John, Detective Inspector?"

He took a single step to his left, toward Sherlock. A strange look cane over his face then, and Lestrade saw at last the full extent of his madness. He was determined to win this game, even if it meant he was locked away for the rest of his life, even if it meant his own destruction. He just couldn't handle losing. And since killing Sherlock was his ultimate objective, he was fixated on that and nothing else now.

Lestrade raised his gun. He couldn't let this happen.

_Bang._

Moriarty stiffened, his eyes going wide and glazed. Lestrade didn't see the bloody wound in his chest, didn't see him fall, didn't see the light leave his eyes for the final time.

He was too busy looking behind him at the shooter.

Mycroft Holmes lowered the gun, for once looking shaken.

"If anyone wants to harm my brother, they will have to go through me," he whispered coldly, eyes fixed on Moriarty with true, boiling hatred.

A single shivering moment of shock passed, and then Lestrade signaled to his men. They rushed over to Moriarty, Sherlock, and John, calling on their radios for ambulances. Sherlock had moved over to John and was allowing no one to touch him, holding him in his arms protectively.

Lestrade looked back at Mycroft. A tacit understanding passed between them, and the detective nodded.

"You had to," he agreed. "But where did you get the gun?"

Mycroft shook his head, twirling his umbrella gently at his side. "Some things are better left unknown, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade looked back at the gory scene. "Thank you."

"No," Mycroft corrected. "Thank you, for helping find them."

"Mycroft? Not to break up this surprisingly sentimental moment you're having, but we have a problem over here."

Sherlock's voice was hoarse and rough, and full of more terror than Lestrade had ever heard. Both he and Mycroft looked around to see what Sherlock meant, and Lestrade was struck by the massive amount of blood and the frightened desperation in Sherlock's eyes.

"I'm not sure he's alive." Sherlock whispered.


	8. He Knows

"Sherlock, mate, it's me."  
  
He looked up, as if through a haze. Someone was standing over him, hand on his shoulder. He shied away. The person reached out for John, and Sherlock felt himself make a strange sound. "Don't touch him," he practically hissed.  
  
"Sherlock, it's alright, it's me," the someone said again.  
  
But all the detective could focus on was that it was not John talking. It was John in his lap. John covered in blood. John unconscious, maybe dead.  
  
The logical part of his brain was telling him to get him help, to press on the wound, to do _anything_ , but all he could do was hold him.  
  
"Sherlock."  
  
Finally Sherlock looked up, a wave of fierce protectiveness washing over him as he held John closer. It took a moment, but his vision started to clear. He realized who was kneeling beside him.  
  
"Lestrade," he said, blinking rapidly to focus his vision further.  
  
He nodded but didn't reach for him or John again. He just waited, and Sherlock realized by his body language he was waiting for the consulting detective to do something. Sherlock's arms were still wrapped around John. But it was wrong now, he was doing something wrong. His brain started trying to work again, and he knew what he had to do.  
  
"Help him," he whispered, a harsh and demanding tone despite the low volume. "Help him."  
  
Sherlock barely moved as other people, paramedics, lifted John off his lap. He stayed still, watching as his doctor was pulled away from him on a stretcher, deathly still and pale. Lestrade helped him stand, but moved away to help Donovan or someone equally irrelevant with something certainly mundane. Something not about John.  
  
Slowly, Sherlock looked down and saw his hands. They were covered with blood, John's blood. In that moment, the horror of it all washed over him. He swayed on the spot, and suddenly couldn't move.  
  
It took a moment, but he realized, with the part of his brain that was still fighting to get messages across, something was very wrong. Right, of course. He was injured as well.  
  
And then he was falling.

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, Mycroft paced in the hallway of St. Bart's, every so often checking his watch. Lestrade was seated in a chair, watching.

"You don't have anywhere else to be?" he asked, tired of the man's restlessness. He stifled a yawn behind his hand. As anxious as he was, this case had been exhausting, and Mycroft's nervous energy was not helping the DI relax.

"Things will be fine without me," Mycroft replied sharply without looking at him.

"And so will things here," Lestrade countered. "I'll call you when I have news. Go rest or something."

Mycroft shook his head. "I'd rather wait and talk to Sherlock myself."

Lestrade sighed, admitting defeat; it seemed Mycroft wasn't going anywhere. "So what are we going to tell him?" he asked.

Mycroft looked over at Lestrade finally. "I don't know, since we don't know anything ourselves."

"Do you think John will make it?"

Mycroft gave him a look, raising an eyebrow skeptically. "You saw him. You tell me."

Lestrade sighed.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft was full of doubt, but he needn't be. After all, if John Hamish Watson was anything, he was a soldier. Not only that, he was stubborn.

At the moment, he was fighting to wake up. Unfortunately, it felt like swimming through mental syrup.

He struggled to remember what had happened to bring him here, wherever that was. The last thing he remembered was... What?

Riddles, something about riddles. And Sherlock was there. And Moriarty. Oh, that's right.

It all seeped back slowly. The riddles and the blood and the desperation. He remembered Sherlock watching him, trying to get them free, then getting a slash on the arm for his trouble.

John remembered passing out and fleetingly hoped he had gotten a blood transfusion. But worry for Sherlock quickly overrode that, and at last, he felt he had the strength to open his eyes again.

He was in the hospital clearly, which he supposed was a good thing. Glancing down, he saw bandages wrapped securely around his arms. A bag of blood was hanging above and behind him, attached to his arm by an IV. He grimaced at the sight. Oh, great, a doctor with a dislike for the sight of blood... Hopefully that wouldn't last.

"John?"

He looked up to see Mycroft standing in the doorway, looking intently at him. John pushed himself up gently, trying not to strain his arms but wanting to feel more upright.

"Mycroft," he greeted.

"Are you feeling better?"

"Did we get Moriarty?"

Mycroft smirked slightly. "I'll interpret that as a yes. And yes, we did. He's downstairs in the morgue, actually. And an associate of his, Sebastian Moran, is in our custody."

John nodded, though he had no idea who Moran was. "Good. It's over then."

He paused, letting that sink in. Moriarty was dead and gone, which would surely make their lives easier. A sense of a weight being lifted, of relief, settled over him.

"Sherlock," he said suddenly, dread making his stomach lurch. "Is he alright?"

"He is fine. He collapsed shortly after we got to you, but the paramedics patched him up. He's bored now, of course. I assume you would like to speak with him." John nodded an affirmative, so Mycroft made for the door. "I'll tell him."

"Thank you," John said, making the elder Holmes pause. He half-smiled, then was gone.

John laid back, resting his head on the pillows. Sherlock was alright. They both were.

His thoughts scattered as the door creaked open a moment later and Sherlock stepped in. The consulting detective had his upper arm wrapped with a bandage and looked slightly paler than normal, but when he saw John, a look of genuine relief crossed his face.

"Sherlock," John greeted. "Are you okay?" He wouldn't believe it until he heard it from Sherlock himself, and maybe not even then. It _was_ Sherlock, after all...

"Yes," Sherlock replied, striding over to check the readings on John's medical instruments. "I see you're feeling better. And your blood volume should be back to normal in a few hours. You might want to get some more plasma though; I don't know about that level yet-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted. Okay, he was clearly feeling better if he felt well enough to try to go off on a speech like that.

"Hmm?" Sherlock looked over, frowning slightly.

"Just shut up for a minute, my head's still aching from everything."

"Oh," Sherlock said softly. "Right. Sorry."

He sat down in the chair next to John's bedside, staring at the bandages on the doctor's arms, hands clasped together in his lap. John tried to identify the look on his face, but it defied his efforts. His forehead was slightly creased, but John couldn't tell if he was worried or concerned or angry.

"John?" asked Sherlock softly.

John knew without asking what he was going to say.

_Why did you take all those cuts for me? Why did you almost die for me?_

_Idiot,_ John thought. _You're my best friend; of course I'll die for you! I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if something had happened to you and I could have stopped it._

But Sherlock couldn't possibly understand that. He had never had friends before in his life. John was his first true friend, and Sherlock was still sort of learning the ropes of how friendship worked. Sherlock couldn't possibly comprehend the motives behind the selfless thing John had done for him. Self-proclaimed sociopath and all that.

But instead of saying any of those things, too uncomfortable and tired to expend the effort, John just sighed and said, "Yeah, Sherlock?"

"Thank you."

Surprised, John slowly lifted his gaze. Sherlock was smiling at him, a rare look of affection in those deep green-gray eyes. He did understand, John realized in wonder. All those unspoken things John had thought, Sherlock had read in his expression, had probably known them all along. He knew exactly why John was willing to give so much, and maybe was even willing to give the same. He knew all these things without having to hear the words, because that was Sherlock: brilliant, maddeningly observant, and totally unexpected in the best way possible.

John smiled back. He didn't have to reply; after all, Sherlock knew.


	9. Epilogue

_Home at Last_

_Sorry for the brief absence everyone, but I think being in the hospital is a good excuse for not putting anything up here._

_You probably all saw the article the other day about Moriarty. Well, that was us, me and Sherlock. I'll write it up in detail in a few days._

_I've been getting a lot of calls and texts, asking how I am, so I figured this is the easiest way to reply to everyone._

_Yeah, I got injured, but I'm doing alright now. There will be scars, but what's a couple more? With the one already on my shoulder, I feel like I'm starting a collection! Anyway, Sherlock and I are home again finally._

_You should have seen Sherlock at the hospital. He was only slightly injured, but since the staff wouldn't let me out of bed for a while, he couldn't drag me down to the morgue or lab to show me what he'd discovered with some weird experiment. It was funny to see him just sitting in my room, going totally stir crazy!_

_But now it's all back to normal here, at least normal for us. I hope a new case comes soon, though, I'd not fancy having to deal with new bullets in the wall. Or heads in the fridge!_

_Anyway, thanks for your concern for my well-being everyone, and no Harry, I'm not moving out. You can't tell me how to live my life. ;)_

John clicked the post button on his latest blog entry, pointedly ignoring Sherlock, who was leaning over to read it, his face centimeters away from John's.

"I was not going stir crazy," he protested. "And my experiments are not weird!"

John chuckled. "Not to you, and sadly not to me now, but to everyone else? Yeah, very weird."

Sherlock scowled. "I'm commenting on that post." He leapt for his own laptop.

"We're in the same room, you can just say it!"

"That's no fun!"

John rolled his eyes but grinned. He knew, though Sherlock may deny it, that the detective rather liked the attention their little e-arguments received.

"What are you going to call the case report, once you write it?"

John sat back in his chair thoughtfully. "I haven't decided yet. I'm thinking something like 'Riddles in the Dark' but I'm not sure."

"Oh honestly," Sherlock groaned. "That makes it sound like some romantic, fantasy adventure! All of your titles do, John! I've told you, we're crime-solving, not being heroes in a fairy tale!"

"Whatever," John laughed. "Call it what you want on your website, but you won't change my mind."

Now he'd call it that just to irk Sherlock, he decided.

They sat there in silence, Sherlock's keys clicking as he updated his own website. John relaxed, soothed by the steady clacking sound.

"You had another nightmare last night," observed Sherlock suddenly.

John looked over at him. Sherlock's eyes were firmly fixed on the laptop screen. "Yeah, I did," he replied.

"Was it about this?"

John felt touched. Sherlock was concerned, an emotion he didn't usually let John see. "No, just the usual."

Sherlock nodded.

"Were you worried about that?" John asked, faintly surprised.

"Well," Sherlock hesitated. "Perhaps."

"Come on, Sherlock, you don't need to. And even if I did have nightmares about this case, or any case really, it wouldn't be your fault. I choose to come with you, remember? So stop worrying."

Sherlock looked over at him. John gave him a reassuring smile, which Sherlock returned after a moment. Confident the detective felt better, John looked back at his blog post.

_Look out for the margarine jar. There's a few tongues inside. SH_

"Sherlock!" John cried exasperatedly.

Sherlock just grinned.

And all was as it should be in 221B.

FIN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you like, please leave a comment and let me know what you think of this! ~ SAF


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